The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million eBook

“To ——­ with Seltzer’s,”
said “Big Jim,” emphatically. “And
d——­ Pat Corrigan! Does he think
I haven’t got any eyes?”

And the door closed behind both of them.

V

“LittleSpeckingarneredfruit”

The honeymoon was at its full. There was a flat
with the reddest of new carpets, tasselled portieres
and six steins with pewter lids arranged on a ledge
above the wainscoting of the dining-room. The
wonder of it was yet upon them. Neither of them
had ever seen a yellow primrose by the river’s
brim; but if such a sight had met their eyes at that
time it would have seemed like—­well, whatever
the poet expected the right kind of people to see in
it besides a primrose.

The bride sat in the rocker with her feet resting
upon the world. She was wrapt in rosy dreams
and a kimono of the same hue. She wondered what
the people in Greenland and Tasmania and Beloochistan
were saying one to another about her marriage to Kid
McGarry. Not that it made any difference.
There was no welter-weight from London to the Southern
Cross that could stand up four hours—­no;
four rounds—­with her bridegroom. And
he had been hers for three weeks; and the crook of
her little finger could sway him more than the fist
of any 142-pounder in the world.

Love, when it is ours, is the other name for self-abnegation
and sacrifice. When it belongs to people across
the airshaft it means arrogance and self-conceit.

The bride crossed her oxfords and looked thoughtfully
at the distemper Cupids on the ceiling.

“Precious,” said she, with the air of
Cleopatra asking Antony for Rome done up in tissue
paper and delivered at residence, “I think I
would like a peach.”

Kid McGarry arose and put on his coat and hat.
He was serious, shaven, sentimental, and spry.

“All right,” said he, as coolly as though
he were only agreeing to sign articles to fight the
champion of England. “I’ll step down
and cop one out for you—­see?”

“Don’t be long,” said the bride.
“I’ll be lonesome without my naughty boy.
Get a nice, ripe one.”

After a series of farewells that would have befitted
an imminent voyage to foreign parts, the Kid went
down to the street.

Here he not unreasonably hesitated, for the season
was yet early spring, and there seemed small chance
of wresting anywhere from those chill streets and
stores the coveted luscious guerdon of summer’s
golden prime.

At the Italian’s fruit-stand on the corner he
stopped and cast a contemptuous eye over the display
of papered oranges, highly polished apples and wan,
sun-hungry bananas.

“Gotta da peach?” asked the Kid in the
tongue of Dante, the lover of lovers.

Scornful, the Kid pursued his quest. He entered
the all-night chop-house, cafe, and bowling-alley
of his friend and admirer, Justus O’Callahan.
The O’Callahan was about in his institution,
looking for leaks.